Falling Slowly
by Fox Murphy
Summary: 1941. Minerva had expected fifth year to be different - it was OWLs year, after all. What she had not expected was that her feelings for Alastor would suddenly be different as well.
1. Being Prefect Changes Things

A/N - Cheers everyone. I officially decided that there is a deficit of McGonagall/Moody fics - especially multi-chapter ones - and thus, this fic came about. Inspired in part by a rainy day at the castle, copious amounts of Bryan Adams music and the Les Miserables soundtrack. This fic is set in 1941 - for a moment of historical-ness, this means there's this right massive war going (in the wizard and muggle world) and the Blitz has just ended in May of 41. Our story picks up in September. So, read, review, and most importantly - Enjoy!

* * *

September sun shone through grey and white clouds, light catching in sparkles and snatches on the surface of the lake. Dropping her bag on the shore, Minerva McGonagall slid out of her shoes and fell to a seat where the grass gave way to sand. Fifth year had begun with just as much gravity as she had expected, classes full of professors who made grave threats about their students' futures. Several students had appeared to be distinctly unnerved by all the sudden expectations. Minerva had merely counted down the minutes until she could slip out of the castle and onto the grounds. Summer days of sunlight and freedom had been brought to an end the previous day in the form of a scarlet steam engine and a crowded platform. Of course, with the war and the bombings and everything else, summer had not felt much like summer at all, and Minerva had been only too glad to return to Hogwarts. Here at school, war was a distant and far away thing, an unpleasant dream that faded by morning. Minerva closed her eyes, breathing deep of the warm autumn air, feeling more at home, more at peace, than she had since her father had come home two years ago and announced that the world was going to war. Footsteps crunched on the grass behind her and Minerva smiled and leaned back, stretching her arms overhead and catching hold of a pair of ankles. Alastor Moody smiled down at her and shook his head, prying loose first one foot, then the other.

"A simple hello would have been just fine."

"Hello then," Minerva grinned and righted herself as Alastor sat down beside her, loosening his tie. He had let his hair grow out over the summer, and the deep auburn color shimmered in the light. "Have you taken to following me around now?"

"I was under the impression I've been following you around since first year," Alastor said with a shrug. Minerva laughed at the truth of this statement, earning a grin from Alastor. Finishing with his tie, he turned his attention to rolling the sleeves of his shirt. His too-big fingers fumbled with the edges, as usual, and Minerva sighed and reached out, knocking his hands away and taking hold of the sleeve herself.

"That's true. But usually you've got Tiberius in tow."

Tiberius Kirk was an exceptionally tall Scotsman with a mop of curly brown hair and a rolling accent that tended to grow stronger when he was angry. He and Alastor had been best friends since some incident on their first journey aboard the Hogwarts Express. When Minerva first met the pair on the boat ride to the castle, she had been under the impression the boys had been friends for years. Of course, neither of Alastor nor Tiberius could be bothered to share the details of whatever incident had led to their meeting, only casting sideways grins at each other whenever Minerva asked. All that mattered, they told her, was that there were certain ways a fellow knew he had found a lifelong friend. Minerva assumed this meant that they had both been alone and terrified and only too happy to find someone else feeling the same. Finishing her work on the closest sleeve, Minerva leaned across Alastor for his opposite arm. Alastor made some sort of protest about doing the job himself, but Minerva shushed him and went on about her work.

"He stayed after Divination. I didn't ask," Alastor said slowly and then Minerva felt him laugh, a deep rumble against her shoulder. At first Minerva was laughing too, patting his arm as she finished rolling the sleeve. And then she was suddenly aware of how close they were, could feel his breath on her hair, and butterflies whirled in her stomach. She felt her face grow hot, and a quick glance upward proved that Alastor's freckled face had turned a similar shade of red. Their eyes locked, frozen in the moment, and Alastor was the first to look away, managing a grin and mumbling something too soft for her to hear. Minerva forced a quick smile and leaned back, hands in her lap and eyes on the lake, the ground, the hem of her skirt. Merlin, this was Alastor, who had been her friend since first year. She certainly should not be having butterflies with him, of all people. Awkward silence passed over the pair as clouds shifted overhead with the breeze, splaying odd-shaped shadows across the ground.

"You know, you're a prefect now," Alastor said slowly, plucking at the grass with his fingers. "You probably shouldn't be sneaking out here in the middle of the day."

"With all the privileges prefects get, I suppose there had to be some rules involved as well," Minerva sighed. Her parents had been ecstatic at the news that she had been named one of the Gryffindor prefects. She had been pleased enough, and pleasantly surprised when her father took her to buy a new broom. But Alastor was unfortunately quite right - the position came with all sorts of responsibilities and expectations. Including, apparently, the loss of her ability to slip out of the castle to enjoy a bit of fresh air between classes.

"What sort of privileges?" Alastor asked. He had turned his attention away from the grass, and the blush had begun to fade from his face. Minerva could almost pretend the strange moment had never happened at all.

"We get to...um...well, enforcing rules, for one."

"Naturally."

"And we get to make rounds at night. Patrol the castle," Minerva added importantly. Alastor snorted and made a genuine effort to keep from laughing.

"Oh, so you'll be out of the common room after curfew, _with_ permission?"

Minerva swatted him in the chest and gave him a very pointed look overtop of her glasses. She had practiced this look on her younger siblings over the summer, figuring that if she simply had to be a prefect, she might as well learn to look intimidating.

"Exactly. It's only a shame you won't have permission to be out as well. It'd certainly save us a lot of trouble."

"Because I'm sure Merrythought would be much more forgiving if she caught two Gryffindor _prefects_ out in the corridors, charming suits of armor and whatnot," Alastor rolled his eyes. "Who wants to be a prefect anyway?"

"Tiberius is a prefect you know," Minerva countered. Honestly she had in fact been quite concerned at the news that Tiberius had named as a prefect, since half of their adventures were his idea anyway. Minerva had a distinct feeling she would be the only Gryffindor prefect who really made much effort to enforce the rules. Alastor smirked at the idea of his best friend being tasked with actual responsibilities. His smirk, however, faded into something of a relieved expression rather abruptly.

"I was wondering where you two had got to on the train."

"Tiberius was supposed to tell you. We had a prefects meeting," Minerva explained. The meeting had been rather boring, full of lists and rules and the general order for how being prefect was supposed to work. Honestly Minerva would have much rather been tucked away in a quiet compartment with Alastor and Tiberius instead.

"Oh. No, he didn't," Alastor frowned for a moment. "Oh well. What other perks you get with this job?"

Minerva had rapidly begun to realize the limited number of privileges prefects actually possessed. She was beginning to feel horribly mislead about the whole matter.

"There's a bathroom," she said finally, snapping her fingers. "The prefects' bathroom on the fifth floor."

Alastor did a better job of hiding his amusement this time, nodding solemnly and battling the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"A bathroom? That's lovely."

"You have to have a password to get in," Minerva insisted. She simply refused to allow Alastor to win this argument. Of course, both of them were stubborn enough that at this rate, the argument might very well last until dinner.

"So who do I need to bribe to get this password?" Alastor asked lightly. His wand was out now, and he was charming the grass to shift through a rainbow of colors. Minerva retrieved her own wand and set about transfiguring the grass into tiny, colored animals.

"Show off," Alastor grumbled, settling her with a look that might have been intimidating to anyone else. Alastor liked to pretend to be gruff and grumbly, but was in actuality more of a teddy bear than he was willing to admit. Not to mention the fact that Minerva knew full well that she was the last person Alastor would ever deliberately hurt. Minerva directed the multi-colored animals toward him, tiny elephants and giraffes and zebras marching in awkward, stumbling lines.

"Thank you. And you shouldn't be bribing prefects, Alastor. You might get into trouble."

"I think that was a thinly veiled threat," Alastor's eyebrows raised, though his eyes never left the bright orange zebra that was currently struggling to climb onto his shoe.

"Never," Minerva said cooly. "I'm merely saying that only Tiberius and I get to use the bathroom, and you'll have to make do with the one in Gryffindor Tower just like everyone else."

She had meant to be making a joke, an off-hand comment about how two of the three friends would be allowed to use the prefects' bathroom. Alastor, however, reacted as though she had just told him that she fancied a Slytherin. He stiffened, pink creeping across his face once more.

"You and Tiberius?"

"Well, yes. We are both prefects," Minerva said slowly, feeling rather confused. The zebra, which had finally made its way onto Alastor's shoe, began to climb the leg of his pants. Paying no attention to the little creature, Alastor stood abruptly, and the zebra fell back to earth. The charm broke, and only a few twisted blades of orange colored grass remained.

"Oh. Alright," Alastor's eyes were on the lake, and he sort of looked like someone had just hit him in the stomach. With a wave of his wand, the rest of the spells broke, and the rainbow menagerie vanished. Minerva stood as well, knowing she had said something wrong but entirely unsure which words had earned the need for an apology. She reached out and tugged on his sleeve, drawing his attention away from the dark water.

"It's only a bathroom, Al."

He winced, and anyone else who dared use the nickname would have been hexed on the spot, Tiberius included. Only Minerva had ever been allowed to call him anything but Alastor. A smile crossed his face, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. He brushed her fingers away, reaching down to retrieve his school bag.

"Right. Only a bathroom. I'd best get to class though. Potions, Slughorn, you know."

He was halfway back up the hill toward the castle before Minerva realized that she herself was due to be in Potions.

"Hang on! I'm heading there next as well, I'll walk with you!"

"It's alright," Alastor shook his head, pausing mid-stride. "You stay here. Enjoy the sun. I'll see you later."

Minerva watched him vanish over the hilltop before slowly returning to her seat in the grass. Here and there a few snatches of bright oranges and purples and blues marked where the little charmed animals had fallen. She was still feeling rather confused about the whole incident, because she certainly had not meant to hurt Alastor's feelings. He had said himself that he never wanted to be a prefect. For some reason his feelings mattered a great deal more than ever before, which was more than slightly troubling. He was still Alastor and she was still Minerva, just as they had been since first year. Only, something had changed, shifted, over the course of the summer. Or perhaps something had been shifting slowly all these years and Minerva was just beginning to realize the effects. Either way, she could not help but remember the butterflies, the blushing awkwardness. With a sigh and a shake of her head, Minerva cleaned her glasses on the hem of her skirt and retrieved her shoes. Changes or no, Slughorn would expect her to be on time for class. Minerva took in another moment of highland air and autumn sun, then trekked back up the hill toward the castle. With any luck, Alastor would have changed his mind and be waiting just inside the doors.


	2. What Are You Looking For?

A/N - So not only did real life decide to get in the way of finishing this chapter but what's more - I actually had a completely different chapter planned to use here. A certain character who shall go unnamed but should be fairly easy to determine decided it'd be way more awesome to have a chapter looking something like the one you're about to read (or at least I hope you're about to read it. It's much better than the Author's Note, I assure you). We're also switching PoVs here, just to warn you. I think at this point I'll just be rotating them chapterly. *sigh* It's both a good and a bad thing when characters decide to take on minds of their own. Also, in terms of relation to the previous chapter, this takes place a couple weeks later...oh screw it, I'll just give it a date. Read, review, and as always, please enjoy!

* * *

_September 17, 1941_

* * *

Smoke hung in the air, thick and choking and distorting the world into odd shapes and angles. The night sky was utterly dark, a sweep of blackness broken occasionally by a flash of red or a burst of light. The stars had gone out tonight. A devastating storm had broken, the distant whine of artillery and the mindless drone of the sirens mingling and screaming in the darkness. One by one the streetlights flickered and faded and died, plunging the street into thick shadows wearing terrible faces. The muggles feared the raids and the bombs and the awful roar of engines overhead. Alastor knew better though, knew there were worse things in the dark London night than the German bombers. In the skies above, Aurors and dark wizards fought from brooms, lighting the sky with magic and fire and death. He had been told a thousand times that if ever he heard the sirens he was to get inside, get to shelter. Get behind the wards and the security spells, take care of his mum and his brother, and be sure not to venture out again until an Auror came round and gave the all clear. Those had been his father's words, his parting instruction to his eldest son. And yet Alastor found himself fighting panic and clutching his wand in one sweaty hand, trapped in the streets as the sirens wailed unceasingly. He had been searching though, searching for something very important. Alastor knew he should remember what exactly he had been looking for, but his mind failed to register anything but the droning sirens and distant roars. The streets were utterly empty, silent save for the noise of the battle overhead, and Alastor found himself watching the alleys and corners, waiting for some unseen enemy to attack. The city felt eerie and cold, as though all the rest of the world had ceased to exist and only he remained alive. Rounding a corner, Alastor skidded to a stop and pounded on the door to a home he knew belonged to a wizarding family, yelled and shouted and pleaded for someone to let him inside. No answer came, though the curtain was pulled back from the window and a square of light reflected out onto the street. Determined to gain the attention of someone, anyone, Alastor pressed his face to the window and knocked against the glass. The sight that greeted him was that of a family seated around the dinner table, parents and children, heads bowed in prayer. Alastor knocked his fist against the glass again, failing to understand how no one heard him at the window. Then the scene changed, and the dining room vanished in a flurry of smoldering flames and blackened furniture, blackened bodies where the family had been sitting at the table. Clapping one hand over his mouth, Alastor muffled a horrified shout, stumbling over the curb in his haste to get away. He fell backward into the street, his wand rolling away as knees and elbows collided painfully with solid stone. Two loud pops echoed above the noise of the sirens, and Alastor went entirely still, half-afraid that he had accidentally gained the attention of some dark wizards out patrolling the burning night. He waited two breaths, then three, and when no one appeared in the shadowed street, Alastor pushed himself back to his feet, retrieving his wand and not daring to look inside the house again. _Get help _his mind supplied, the only coherent thought over a jumbled mess of panic and horror and a sick, creeping feeling that threatened to return his dinner. Sirens wailed overhead as Alastor ran, feet slapping on stone, breath coming in harsh gasps. The noise of the blitz grew louder, even as the street never seemed to change, and Alastor feared he had indeed been trapped by dark wizards, because he could not seem to get away from the burning house and the burning bodies. All out once, the narrow street faded around him. Alastor halted at the edge of the sidewalk, suddenly finding that the inescapable lane of houses vanished, replaced by a wide square. The square seemed slightly familiar, with the banks and offices buildings on all sides and lamp posts lining the sidewalks. Before Alastor could give further thought to how he might have visited the square before, the air ripped and split into a thousand pieces somewhere behind him, a deafening explosion shaking the very ground. Alastor stumbled and cast a glance back over his shoulder at the flames that now consumed one of the huge banks. Orange and red and gold flared upward against the dark sky, the statues on the bank's steps glowing like strange demons in the night. Slowly, the building collapsed in on itself, a rolling cloud of dust and broken stone overtaking Alastor and the square. The world descended into monotone hues of grey, and Alastor lit his wand, coughing and choking, eyes burning as he wandered onward, aiming to escape the unnatural fog. His ears were ringing now, and the sirens sounded dull and far away. Then the light from his wand caught on a shape in the cloud of debris, a blurred something that might have been a person.

"Who's there?" Alastor jogged forward, scrubbing at his eyes and fully intent on taking on a dark wizard if necessary. His voice sounded odd and echoed. "Who's there?"

The cloud parted just enough for him to see a dark haired girl in a white dress, arms crossed behind her back. She was looking upward, and on any other night she might have been stargazing.

"You shouldn't be out here," Alastor grumbled. "It's dangerous."

"But you're out here," the girl turned to face him now, smiling slyly. A muggle plane roared low overhead, kicking up the dust and debris and a stinging wind. Alastor shoved his hair back out of his eyes, even as the girl's hair whipped around her face, dark and shifting as the night. "What are you looking for?"

"I...I don't know," Alastor admitted, troubled when no ready answer supplied itself. There must have been a reason for him to be outside, for him to be away from home. A feeling nagged at the back of his mind, the tug of memory that he ought to recall. Much to his frustration, however, Alastor simply could not remember what he had been searching for, what he had braved sirens and bombs and dark wizards to find.

"What are you looking for?" the girl asked again. Before Alastor could reply, another shrill whine broke the air and the street exploded beneath them. The ground vanished, and there was only air and free-falling, sharp edges against his face and skin. Alastor hit the ground with a painful crack and lay still for a moment as broken stone continued to fall from overhead. The world had gone entirely crooked now, fallen sideways and faded on the edges. His head ached and so did his arm and Alastor wanted nothing more than to just fall asleep and pray someone found him by morning. But there was still the girl in the white dress lost somewhere in the cloudy, upside down world, and he simply had to find her. Suddenly finding the girl was a matter of grave importance. Staggering to his feet, Alastor paused for a moment, slumped over and gasping for air as his heart raced in his ears and his body protested further movement. Then his wand was lit and he managed to recall how to walk, one foot then the other. He ought to have shouted, called out to the girl in an effort to speed the search. But he did not know her name, and words failed him besides, his throat dry and aching and raw from the dust and smoke. He tripped up once over a great gaping hole in the ground, then tripped again over a large lump that rolled slightly upon contact. Unlike piles of stone and rubble, however, this lump appeared to be breathing. Heart still racing, Alastor sank to his knees, hands shaking as he turned the girl over. The white dress was stained now, smeared grey and brown and accompanied by a slow spread of deep crimson. Alastor swore and pressed his hands to the ugly wound, knowing the girl was dead, refusing to believe nothing could be done. He had to save her. And then the girl's face changed, and she was a stranger no more as Minerva looked up at him unseeing, eyes wide and empty. Alastor's eyes widened, and he must have shouted, and his hands were shaking even more now as he slowly, slowly reached for her face.

"No..." he breathed, prodding with his wand at the rapidly spreading pool of crimson. The healing spells fizzled and died and failed entirely, and Alastor was gasping and desperate now, feeling for any signs of life as the sirens wailed on overhead.

"NO!"

Alastor Moody sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily. Cold sweat clung to him and his heart was racing. Distantly he could still hear the wail of the sirens and the roar of bombs, the smell of smoke and ash and death. Suddenly the sheets were trapping him, wrapped around his legs and soaked with sweat. Alastor struggled for a moment to free himself, nearly falling out of the bed in the process and swearing spectacularly. Finally he won his way free, shoving apart the bed curtains with a desperate gasp. Cold air kissed his skin and silver light shimmered on the window pane, breaking up the darkness. Alastor shut his eyes and breathed deep of the cold, clean air, reminding himself over and over he was at Hogwarts now. He was safe.

Although reassuring to a degree, the thought did little to dispel the lingering fear, the slippery tendrils that wrapped around his heart like ice. The nightmares had plagued him for more than a year now, and still Alastor found himself awake in the dark watches of the night, half-remembered sounds and sights playing in the shadows. Ever the same dream came night after night, of bombs and fire and the girl in the white dress. Of course, the girl had at first just been an ordinary, unknown victim. Alastor was unsure when exactly the dream had begun to change, begun to portray Minerva as the girl in the white dress. Begun to portray her as the girl who died. This change made the dream far more frightening, and the image now burned in Alastor's waking mind. He scrubbed his hands on his pajama pants, knowing there was no blood, no real blood at least. His eyes watched the shadows in the corners of the room, and Alastor realized that he had grabbed his wand without thinking. He slipped his legs over the edge of the bed, hands pressed to the mattress and head hanging. Long months of the same nightmare had proved that once awake, Alastor would not be returning to sleep anytime soon.

"Alastor?"

The noise startled him, and Alastor jumped to his feet in an instant, wand raised in the direction of the voice. Phantoms from his nightmare formed in the shadows, dark wizards and wailing sirens. Then the curtains of the next bed opened, revealing the frowning face of Tiberius Kirk. The curly haired Scotsman had his own wand raised, and motioned for Alastor to disarm.

"Not that I donnae trust you mate, but I'd rather you dinnae hex me at three in the morning."

Alastor mumbled an apology and set his wand on the nightstand, sinking back to a seat on his bed. He ran both hands through his hair, breathing deep and wishing his heart would stop racing. A prickling feeling ran across the back of his neck, as though someone were watching from behind, and Alastor reflexively twisted to look over his shoulder. Only another bed, another set of curtains, and another moonlight-filled window filled the space. Alastor shut his eyes tight and forced himself to turn back around and ignore the lingering feeling of being watched.

"You get them too?" Tiberius asked quietly. Alastor's eyes jerked open, his attention on Tiberius in an instant, who had in turn shifted his own attention to the window. Tiberius commonly avoided any subjects that appeared to lead into uncertain or gloomy territory. In fact, if unable to inject a bit of humor into a situation, Tiberius tended to remain awkwardly silent and simply listen. Thus the question baffled Alastor entirely, because Tiberius could only be referring to the nightmares. And Tiberius had to know that this would be a rather humorless conversation, but still seemed to be making an effort to discuss the matter anyway.

"Ah...I...what?" Alastor feigned confusion, rather unsure as to whether or not he wanted to admit that he was a fifteen year old wizard being kept awake by nightmares and midnight phantoms. There were appearances to keep, after all. Tiberius shrugged and halfway smiled, still looking out the window.

"You know. The nightmares. About the raids."

Silence spread between them, broken on occasion by shallow breaths and shifting sheets as the other occupants of the room slept on unaware. The window panes split the moonlight into squares, casting a divide between the two boys. Alastor was vividly reminded of the dim confessional visited in a childhood that felt too far away. In the semi-darkness and hushed silence, sharing the secret, telling Tiberius of the nightmares, suddenly seemed much easier.

"Oh. Aye," Alastor admitted quietly, hands tightening on his pajama pants once more. "Suppose I do."

When Alastor glanced up, meeting the eyes of his friend, there was a familiar look in Tiberius' an understanding passed between the two. An unspoken oath of secrecy and confidence, sealed with two quick nods.

"Mine started last summer," Tiberius said in a rush, as though he had been waiting for the proper signal. "All the raids on Aberdeen. Tis not just the muggle raids either."

"No, the wizards too. They're just as bad. Worse, even," Alastor agreed. The airborne battles fought by the Aurors had featured prominently on the front page of the Prophet. What the Prophet failed to share was just how many enemy wizards managed to reach the ground untouched. "How often do you um...have them? The dreams, I mean."

Tiberius winced and closed his eyes, leaning back against the headboard of his bed.

"About as often as you do I expect. Although I don't think I've woken up screaming yet."

Anger flared, furious and dark, and Alastor's jaw clenched as he scowled at Tiberius, resisting a powerful urge to take a swing at his friend, reaching for his wand on the nightstand. Tiberius sighed, shaking his head.

"Honestly, Alastor, it was a joke."

"A rather poor joke, I'd say," Alastor muttered, exhaling sharply and forcing himself to relax, to breath, to stay calm. He ought to know by now, ought to expect Tiberius' half-hearted attempts to brighten the mood. At present, however, Alastor was in no mood for Tiberius' sense of humor.

"In which case, I apologize," Tiberius murmured, "I dinnae mean to offend. Just trying to cheer you up, mate."

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes and falling backwards onto the bed. The sheets were still in a tangled bunch, lying where they had fallen during his desperate attempts to escape. A stray thought struck him, a troubling matter that had been bothering him since the dreams first began to change, and Alastor asked the question aloud without properly thinking.

"You suppose Minerva's safe?"

Regretting speaking almost immediately, Alastor clapped a hand over his mouth a second too late. Tiberius, who had closed his eyes again, opened one green eye and tilted his head to the side, fixing Alastor with a confused stare. Alastor felt his face coloring rapidly and was exceedingly thankful for the relative darkness provided by the four poster bed. He may have admitted his nightmares, but Alastor would die before he admitted to anyone, especially Tiberius, how exactly he felt about Minerva.

"What you on about?" Tiberius asked. "Course she's safe. She's in the tower, same as us. Got that bloody slippery staircase too."

"I, yes...I meant...at home. Do you suppose she's safe at home?" Alastor floundered for words, covering his face with his hands. He could still hear Tiberius' muffled laughter, though he tried his best to ignore the sound.

"She lives in a wizarding village, Alastor. In the middle of the country. Far away from any muggle ports or cities. She's safer than me in Aberdeen. Far safer than you are in London. Why?"

"Haven't been in London," Alastor mumbled, apparently too quietly for Tiberius to hear. He did not bother repeating the statement. Tiberius would never tell, would never reveal the secrets shared in moonlight and shadow. But Alastor was not much keen on sharing the fact that he and his brother had been sent to live with his mother's relatives in the country. Perhaps another night there would be a chance to tell that particular story. Tiberius may have been like his brother, but even between brothers and friends a fellow could say too much.

"I was just wondering," he said instead, sitting up on his elbows and managing an awkward shrug.

"Stop worrying so much Alastor," Tiberius smiled and shook his head, "Merlin, but you're going to be paranoid if you keep this up. We're at Hogwarts. I'm safe, you're safe, and Minerva's safe. Now please, go back to sleep."

Alastor smiled weakly and murmured goodnight as Tiberius vanished once more behind his bed curtains. The room descended into silence, or at least as silent as the boys dormitory had ever been. Sheets rustled and somewhere on the far side of the room a pillow hit the floor with a dull thud. Wind rattled the window pane and mingled with the sounds of snoring and shallow breaths. Alastor tugged his own bed curtains back into place, sliding between the sheets as the last traces of silvery moonlight vanished and darkness surrounded him once again. He pressed his head to the pillow, forced his eyes to close, and focused on the sounds around him, the heartbeat of the place. He was at Hogwarts. He was safe. Minerva was safe. Suddenly Minerva's safety, Minerva's happiness, mattered much more than he ever remembered them mattering before, and the change troubled him greatly. Alastor breathed deep, pushing back the threatening wail of warning sirens, instead remembering warm September sun and rainbow colored animals in the grass. _Minerva is safe_, his mind repeated over and over, reminding him, assuring him, finally lulling him to sleep.


	3. Rumors Are Nothing But Trouble

A/N - See, much quicker on the update! Moving ahead another of couple weeks in story time. I think I mention that in chapter, but just so it's specific, I'll give an actual date. As always, read, review, and most importantly - Enjoy!

* * *

_October 6_

* * *

Minerva had entirely managed to forget about the incident by the lake, or at least, had managed to convince herself not to think about the incident. Either way, she was able to smile cheerfully and go on about 5th year without the bizarre worry that she had hurt Alastor Moody's feelings. Until of course, one night a few weeks later, when she happened to be working in the library, wherein she decided that fate clearly had a cruel sense of humor.

Professor Binns had assigned an essay on the Faerie Revolts of the 700s and expected at least a roll and a half of parchment on the subject. Having come to the conclusion that teachers assigned this sort of work purely to be some sort of punishment, Minerva had spent upwards of an hour attempting to work in the Gryffindor common room. Unfortunately, a rather large number of third years were gathered around the fireplace for some sort of mass game of Exploding Snap, not especially mindful of fifth years who needed to study. Between the bangs and shouts and laughter, Minerva was resisting a powerful urge to hex the nearest fellow, a thin boy with tawny hair and round glasses. She remembered just in time that he was in fact on the Quidditch team, and instead tucked her supplies into her bag and vacated the table entirely. Alastor and Tiberius had abandoned their homework some time ago, choosing instead to join a group of boys gathered around a table further from the fireplace. Most of the boys seemed to be older students, sixth and seventh years Minerva only recognized in passing. Static warred with spoken word as one of the boys tinkered with a Wireless set, determined to pick up a clearer broadcast. The war had taken over the news, and Alastor and Tiberius had taken to listening religiously. Both of them looked unusually grave, and Minerva guessed that whatever some new battle or death or capture was being reported. War was an awful thing, and she would be glad when the mess was over. She left the boys to their listening and instead found Augusta Prewett, who was seated in an armchair as far as possible from the crowd around the fire. Augusta proved all too happy to abandon the common room in favor of the quiet sanctuary of the library.

The library, however, had turned out to be anything but a sanctuary. Minerva and Augusta had settled at a table near the back, hidden behind a rickety set of shelves that constantly looked to be in danger of toppling. From somewhere on the other side of the shelves streamed the constant giggle and chatter of girls who apparently had no better place to gossip. Not that Minerva minded gossip in general, really, and on any other occasion she might have abandoned Binns' essay in order to join in the conversation. She had even considered the idea once or twice, in fact, whenever she struck a particularly tedious section of writing.

"Hem, hem," the high pitched, breathy voice cut across the conversation, silencing the girls entirely, and Minerva very nearly put her quill straight through the parchment in shock.

"Oh Merlin," Minerva muttered, eyes squeezed shut. "Please tell me I'm hearing things."

"Unfortunately not," Augusta sighed. Apparently she had knocked over her inkwell, staining the top of her own essay as well as a rather large spot on the table. "Should we leave?"

Minerva shook her head firmly, returning her attention very pointedly to her essay as Augusta sighed again and set about trying to clean up the mess left by the ink.

"I'm not leaving just because she's here. I've got work to do."

Very little work was in fact accomplished, however, because very soon the conversation on the opposite side of the shelves shifted to more relevant gossip and Minerva could not help but listen.

"You know, I heard that Richard Nott fancies Isabel," one girl declared primly. Apparently Isabel was within the circle of girls in the library, because she squealed exagerratedly. Minerva rolled her eyes and resisted an urge to throw a book in their general direction.

_The revolts resulted due to centuries of unrest...._

"I wish Tiberius Kirk wasn't a Gryffindor. He's very handsome."

Scowling over her shoulder, Minerva very nearly overturned her own inkwell. If Tiberius could hear these girls, he'd probably jinx away their ability to giggle.

_Faeries had long been oppressed by witches and wizards who considered..._

"You'd be better off fancying Duncan Longbottom anyway. I mean, they're both purebloods, but Duncan's got more money. Makes up for his looks, you know."

This time Augusta gasped in shock, frowning and covering her mouth abruptly. Fortunately, laughter and agreement drowned out the noise. Augusta had decided at the end of fourth year that she fancied Duncan but had thus far made no further efforts or statements on the subject. Minerva liked to think this was because the normally indomitable Augusta had fallen prey to nerves and butterflies and blushing shyness. However, when safely hidden behind rickety shelves, Augusta seemed quite willing to condemn anyone who spoke ill of Duncan.

"They must all be Slytherins!"

"Seems like it," Minerva agreed, turning her attention back to the essay in an effort to tune out the chatter.

_What began as an ordinary workers' strike soon grew into a..._

"Did you see what Amelia Bones was wearing on the train? So very Muggle."

_full revolt when Aurors attempted to break up the protests..._

"I can't believe she's really a Pureblood. Certainly doesn't act like it."

_and someone inadvertently fired a Stunning Spell into the..._

"Hem, hem."

The words grated like nails on a chalkboard, and Minerva halted mid-sentence despite her best efforts. The breathy voice carried on, after of course waiting to ensure that full attention had been gained.

"You know, I heard that Alastor Moody fancies Amelia. He asked her to go to the first Hogsmeade weekend with him," Dolores Umbridge said slowly. Minerva's hand tightened around her quill reflexively, a furious feeling bolting through her. The idea was absurd, really, because Alastor would have told her if he fancied anyone. They were best friends, after all. And best friends were supposed to talk about things like who fancied who. She had told him in third year when she developed a crush on Charlus Potter. Of course, when Minerva really thought about such conversations, Alastor had never once mentioned anyone he might fancy. Suddenly she was angry and hurt and not entirely sure why. Dolores simply could not be right.

"Moody, the Quidditch player? I don't think even Amelia Bones would go with him."

Minerva was on her feet in an instant, shoving her chair away from the table and tossing down her quill before Augusta could stop her. Not that Augusta really seemed like she planned to do much intervening anyway, given the cheery "Let them have it!"

Rounding the corner into the next aisle, Minerva was rather unsurprised to find six giggling girls, all in Slytherin uniforms. At the nearest end of the table sat Dolores Umbridge, garishly pink bow perched atop her curls.

"Minerva. Care to join us?"

The invitation came from the general direction of the girls at the opposite end of the table. Minerva, however, had only one purpose in mind.

"Alastor does not fancy Amelia."

"Of course he does, dear," Dolores' eyes widened, the only thing betraying her surprise. "Dear" very nearly sent Minerva over the edge, fists clenching at her side.

"He does not!"

The girls were all giggling again, only this time they were almost certainly giggling at her. Dolores remained in her seat, still entirely composed, and Minerva was suddenly aware that her own face had grown quite red.

"If I may ask, why on earth does it matter?" Dolores asked slowly, grinning darkly and clearly enjoying this far too much. Minerva faltered and hesitated, face growing even more red as she pushed her glasses back into place and struggled for words. Her mind seemed utterly incapable of providing an answer, much to the amusement of Dolores and the other Slytherins. Suddenly a hand closed over her shoulder, and Minerva found Augusta standing just behind her, two school bags slung over her shoulder and forced smile on her face.

"Good evening everyone, lovely to see you," Augusta said brightly, waving with her free hand. "I do believe we'll be going now. Enjoy your conversation."

Augusta tugged quite firmly, already moving before the Slytherins had time to respond, and Minerva stumbled away, too surprised to protest. Laughter and chatter echoed on behind them, taunting and sharp and Minerva felt further color rush to her face.

"I don't need you to rescue me," she jerked her arm away from Augusta with a scowl. Seeming to have expected this, Augusta merely arched an eyebrow and offered Minerva her school bag.

"Firstly, I wasn't just there to rescue you. In about five minutes they're all going to get a sudden urge to dance on the tables. Secondly, Dolores was just trying to get you angry. And I'd say she succeeded quite well."

"Well. She was wrong!" Minerva insisted, wincing at her volume and hurrying for the door. "Did you really hex them?"

"Of course I did," Augusta said plainly, waving and forcing another smile for Madam Pince, the new librarian, "And I'd rather be out of here before anything happens."

Once they were safely in the hall and the door safely closed, Minerva pushed Augusta's prank to the back of her mind and crossed her arms sullenly, resisting an urge to stomp her foot. "She was wrong."

"Of course she was. I know that and you know that and anyone else who matters knows that," Augusta shrugged, already walking away. As much as Augusta seemed unwilling to discuss the matter, Minerva was still irrationally angry and determined to have an argument with someone.

"Then why did you have to jump in?" Minerva persisted, and taking her frustration out on her conveniently located friend.

"Because we're fifth years and you're a prefect and you were arguing with them like we were back in primary school," Augusta stated. She never turned around as she climbed the stairs, but Minerva had no trouble picturing the matter of fact look on her face. Suddenly all the anger and foul temper washed away, replaced by a very powerful sense of embarrassment. Minerva realized she had made a fool of herself in front of Dolores Umbridge and the little gang of giggling Slytherins. She might never hear the end of this.

"I'm sorry."

"You haven't got to apologize to me. Thank me, perhaps, for hexing them and getting you out of there before you did anything too incredibly uncalled for," Augusta cast a quick smile over her shoulder as she reached the top of the landing, pausing in front of the portrait. "Why did it matter, if you don't mind my asking."

"Hmm?" Panic flared now as Augusta asked the one question Minerva was still thoroughly unprepared to answer. "Oh well...he's my friend, you know, and I didn't want...didn't want them spreading rumors...about him."

The answer sounded flimsy at best, but Augusta merely nodded and gave no indication that she intended to disagree. Personally Minerva was sincerely hoping that someone would answer the question for her, because she was thoroughly baffled as to why the thought of Alastor with Amelia Bones made her quite so upset. Augusta gave the password to the Fat Lady and the door swung inward, ushering them inside.

The third years had cleared out, leaving only a few seventh years working on charts for Divination and Tiberius and Alastor, who had claimed seats on the sofa nearest the fire. Tiberius saw her first and waved enthusiastically.

"There you are! We're up here struggling through this essay for Binns and you're nowhere ta be found."

"Sorry," Minerva grinned and pushed the incident in the library to the back of her mind. She tumbled into the seat beside Alastor, waving goodnight to Augusta, who had already departed for the stairs. She almost missed the trapped look that passed over Alastor's face. "I've got a question for you Al."

"Oooh, she's got a question, Al," Tiberius adopted a solemn expression and winked at Minerva. This earned him a swift punch to the shoulder, although Alastor was still at least grinning. Tiberius did not dare use the nickname himself, but was certainly not above poking fun at Alastor.

"And what would you like to ask me?" Alastor turned his attention back to Minerva, dark eyes sparkling. Two tries were required before Minerva could manage words.

"Are you going with Amelia Bones to Hogsmeade?"

Alastor clearly had not been expecting that particular question, as he looked positively stunned. Tiberius' grin widened, if anything, as Alastor slowly recovered and managed to respond.

"Not that I'm aware of. Why?"

For some reason this answer made Minerva feel significantly better, but she was not finished yet.

"Do you fancy her?"

"I-what? N-no!" Alastor shook his head with great enthusiasm. "Why?"

"No reason," Minerva shrugged. Alastor looked from her to Tiberius, plainly trying to determine if some sort of joke was being played on him. Tiberius merely laughed and shrugged.

"Donnae look at me, mate. I've no idea what she's on about."

"I was just wondering. Some people were talking about it," Minerva explained hurriedly, trying to be as nonchalant about the matter as possible. Alastor, however, had narrowed his eyes, and Tiberius looked quite intrigued.

"What people?" Alastor asked, mouth pressed into a frown. Tiberius laughed again and clapped his friend on the shoulder.

"What's it matter mate? You ought to be happy - your love life is finally interesting enough for everyone to talk about."

While Tiberius found this prospect greatly amusing, Alastor himself actually looked faintly ill. Minerva was beginning to be quite sorry she had brought the matter up at all.

"Because there's so much to talk about," Alastor rolled his eyes, voice dripping sarcasm. Tiberius smiled and shook his head, tugging a roll of parchment free from a pile on the table.

"Minerva, would you care to look at my essay? I cannae for the life of me figure out what to do here in this middle part," Tiberius passed her the parchment, easily changing the subject, and Minerva was only too happy to oblige. She scanned over the messy scrawl for awhile, occasionally offering one suggestion or another. Tiberius gave several half-hearted agreements, but he had opened up his Charms book and finally told her she could change whatever she wanted. For awhile Alastor looked rather uncomfortable, arms crossed and Charms book open in his lap. Slowly he returned to normal, abandoning Charms and comparing his own essay with Tiberius', making corrections as Minerva directed. An hour or so passed that way, the three of them sitting in comfortable companionship on the sofa. The fire flickered and waned as time passed, bathing them all in orange glow and shadow. Minerva finally gave up on Tiberius' essay and shut her eyes with a yawn. Without even thinking she rested her head against Alastor's shoulder, as she had a thousand times before. He stiffened for a moment, and she opened one eye in a halfway questioning look. Alastor smiled then, warm and comforting and just the same as always, and Minerva could almost ignore the butterflies that swirled when his arm slipped around her shoulders.


	4. Up in the Air

A/N - Another update. That's three in one weekend I believe. Last one for a bit, because I'm starting my new job this week and I'm not 100% sure what my schedule will be. If nothing else, there shall be updates this weekend, rest assured. Moving ahead some more in story time, to late October. Oh and also, this chapter and the next *checks notes* two or so take place over the same days (October 23-24). Could this be because epic things happen? Who knows? lol. Anyway, read, review, and most importantly - Enjoy!

* * *

_October 23_

* * *

Quidditch had for years been Alastor's escape from school and life, an easy way to slip away from the everyday. The feel of flying, the rush of wind in his hair and the exhilaration thrumming through him, sky above and earth below. Built more like a Beater than a Chaser, Alastor quite enjoyed his ability to not only outfly but also outmuscle his opponents. Quidditch managed to be a stress reliever and an outlet for his fiery temper and a way to forgot about the war, all conveniently combined with brooms and a point system. Of course, now that Alastor needed this escape more than ever, now that he most needed to lose himself in the easy repetitions of practice, Quidditch provided no escape at all.

Alastor had spent the past few weeks trying to sort out his feelings for Minerva. Merlin, she had been his best friend since first year. Yet somehow as the years passed, when Alastor clearly had not been paying enough attention, Minerva had changed, or else he had. Either way, she had stopped being the short, smart girl who wore her hair in braids and followed eagerly on any adventure. She wore her dark hair loose now, and she was no longer quite so small, and her eyes sparkled behind her glasses and oh, Merlin, but this sort of thinking would not help matters at all The fact that Minerva played Quidditch did nothing to ease matters either, Alastor noted unhappily. His practice currently fit the description of the words 'truly awful', largely because he kept finding himself watching Minerva instead of all other activity taking place on the pitch. He had recently taken to drifting along above the rest of the team, occasionally pretending to be practicing maneuvers when he thought anyone might be looking. After the second Bludger nearly hit him in the face, however, Alastor had sworn spectacularly and very determinedly kept his eyes on the goal, the Quaffle, the ground, anything but Minerva. Tiberius zoomed past, not even sparing a sideways glance as he chased after the Snitch, long frame almost too big for his broom. But Tiberius was lighter than he looked, and had a far better reach than any other Seeker at Hogwarts, which combined to be more than enough advantage. Rupert Scrimgeour and Oliver Lockhart, the two newest players on the team, were knocking a Bludger back and forth through the air. Alastor frowned at the two third years, suddenly very easily able to guess who precisely had been responsible for all the Bludgers flying at him. Someone really ought to tell Rupert Scrimgeour that smirking and snickering were dead giveaways. Swearing again and grinning wickedly, Alastor turned his broom and rocketed forward, crossing the space in a matter of seconds and snagging Rupert neatly by the neck of his jumper. Rupert's legs latched around his broom for a moment reflexively, but Alastor tugged once and pulled the smaller boy away and into the air. The tawny haired boy yelped in panic, struggling to get free.

"Put me down!"

Alastor raised an eyebrow and shifted his hold on Rupert's jumper, fighting to keep the extra weight from overbalancing them both.

"Put you down?" Alastor shrugged, which required more effort than he had expected, "If you insist."

Loosening his grip slightly, Alastor let Rupert slip a few inches. Barely a drop of any sort, but enough for the boy to realize exactly how high in the air Alastor had flown. The pitch seemed far below, a smear of bright green surrounded by brown, dotted here and there by moving shapes on brooms. Rupert yelped again and clutched desperately, and a bit painfully, at Alastor's arm. Tiberius' booming laugh carried from far below, echoing through the air, and someone seemed to be shouting for Rupert to be tossed through the goalpost. This idea elicited a cheer from the other Gryffindors. Tempting as the idea was, Alastor instead dove again, pulling up a few feet above the pitch and depositing Rupert on the ground. The boy rolled a bit before tumbling to a stop, sprawled on his back. Alastor landed a few feet away, sliding off his broom and clutching his stomach as he roared with laughter. The air shifted and hummed around him as the rest of the Gryffindor team, still laughing hysterially, landed on the pitch.

"Oh, well done mate," Tiberius grinned broadly, the Snitch wriggling to escape from one fist.

"Still think you should have tossed him through the goal," Charlus Potter declared. The dark haired boy had presently removed his glasses in an effort to wipe his eyes clear again. Oliver was half-heartedly trying to pull Rupert off the ground, really having too much trouble laughing to be of much help.

"I think you might have frightened him," Minerva leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, adding a wink for good measure. Alastor winked in answer and took a bow, earning another round of laughter and a scattering of applause. The laughter ceased abruptly as Alastor finished his bows, trailing into awkward silence. Alastor frowned as Tiberius and Charlus shook their heads and shifted their attention to the ground. Footsteps crunched on the grass behind him, and Alastor squeezed his eyes shut and sincerely hoped that he was not about to be hexed. Turning slowly on his heels, Alastor found himself face to face with Grace McGin. For a split second Grace looked like she might actually be amused. Then the second passed and she merely looked unpleasantly annoyed, arms crossed and foot tapping.

"You quite finished, Moody?"

Alastor winced and dared to hold eye contact with the fiery Gryffindor captain. Grace was a seventh year, her second year as captain, and everyone on the team knew that she was determined to win the Cup one last time before she ended her Hogwarts career.

"Aye, think so. You going to hit any more Bludgers when I'm not looking, Scrimgeour?"

"N-no. Not likely," Rupert said shakily, finally getting back to his feet and attempting to repair his crooked glasses.

"I'm done then," Alastor nodded, faking confidence and sincerely hoping Grace did not murder him on the spot. Really there were too many witnesses, but she seemed to consider the idea for a moment, much to Alastor's discomfort. Then with an annoyed sigh and a gesture toward the sky, Grace slung her leg over her broom and instead kicked off from the pitch once more.

"Then get up here and let's go through some formations before we lose daylight!"

"I'd say we've already lost a fair amount of daylight," Charlus noted dryly, tilting the top of his broom toward the clouds, which had taken on a faintly orange hue. The wind picked up, humid and heavy.

"Not to mention it might rain any moment," Tiberius agreed, nodding solemnly as he climbed back onto his own broom. "I donnae much care fer being rained on."

Alastor had been about to agree with this sentiment when Grace roared from the direction of the goal posts.

"I missed the part where the ground is the common playing area for Quiddtich!"

Alastor exchanged sheepish grins with Minerva and Tiberius, settling onto his broom and following his friends skyward once more. Charlus retrieved the Quaffle, and Oliver finally managed to situate Rupert back onto a broom. Rupert currently wore a rather murderous expression, and Alastor had a distinct feeling that any and all Bludgers would be aimed at one particular player for the remainder of practice. Grace shouted for them to get moving, looking rather furious, and then everyone was flying, dipping, rolling, rocketing across the pitch in blurs of scarlet and gold. Alastor bent low over his broom, determined to focus on practice now as wind whipped across his face. Charlus tossed the Quaffle into the air, and the ball was still climbing when Minerva managed a one-handed catch. She dodged a Bludger, cutting towards the outside of the pitch and firing the Quaffle toward Alastor. The Quaffle hit him in the chest, and he tucked one arm protectively around the ball and dove downward away from another Bludger. He turned the broom sharply, rising parallel to the goalpost. Grace kicked out, barely missing his face in her attempt to block the expected shot. Instead Alastor grinned, tossing the Quaffle upward and back, where Minerva caught and powered the ball through goal on the left side in one smooth motion. Alastor cheered and Minerva was flying toward him, laughing and smiling, but before Alastor's stomach properly had time to twist itself into knots Grace shouted for them to go again. Minerva rolled her eyes, still smiling, and Alastor tossed off an easy salute to his captain, ignoring the Quaffle that hit him between the shoulder blades.

Half an hour more of practice passed in a rush of adrenaline and flight, Charlus and Minerva and Alastor himself all scoring plenty of goals and Grace blocking plenty more. The drills ended when Alastor veered upward to dodge one Bludger, then was forced to roll to avoid a second, throwing the Quaffle towards the far post as he did. The ball spun through the air and would have bounced through the goal had Grace not managed a diving catch. Alastor scowled and swore softly, slapping his broom in irritation. Grace, however, was smiling again, switching out of captain mode with a speed that was simply unnerving.

"Alright, well done everyone. Really good work."

One by one the Gryffindor team landed, descending from the sky like scarlet rain. The clouds had darkened overhead, and thunder rumbled out over the highlands.

"Mind if we get moving Grace?" Charlus gestured toward the clouds. "I don't much fancy being struck by lightning. The thought of losing a player in an unfortunate weather-related accident seemed to alarm Grace significantly.

"Get moving then, back to the castle. I'll see you all at the match Saturday."

Charlus smiled gratefully and jogged away, offering some excuse about Potions homework that needed finished. Alastor cast a sideways look at Tiberius, who merely shook his head and shrugged. If Charlus wanted to try his luck with Dorea Black and her pleasant family, he was welcome to do so. Merlin knew the rest of the fifth year Gryffindor boys would hear all about any incidents later. Oliver and Rupert headed away in the direction of the greenhouses, apparently expected to serve a detention, and Grace stayed behind to clean up the rest of the equipment. Thus the path back to the castle was left to Alastor, Tiberius, and Minerva, traipsing uphill in the glow of setting sun.

Alastor had somehow been conned into carrying three brooms instead of one. Well, admittedly, he had offered to carry Minerva's broom. Tiberius had merely decided to take advantage of the courtesy, entirely ignoring the Alastor's glare. After flying, walking always had him feeling rather unsteady, but Tiberius and Minerva were on either side of him and were just as unsteady, so that was alright. If he happened to trip and fall, Alastor had full intention of falling in the direction of Tiberius, who was still laughing about the stunt with Rupert.

"I'm just glad someone finally taught Scrimgeour a lesson," Minerva said, opening the door to the broom shed. Alastor murmured a quick 'thank you' and deposited the brooms against the far wall, trying his best not to knock anything important loose.

"He earned it, I think," Alastor flashed a quick grin, exiting the shed and closing the door behind him and motioning for Minerva to go on ahead.

Thunder rumbled again, this time closer overhead, and the sun blazed red from between the thick layer of clouds. Tiberius had taken the lead now, Minerva beside him, and Alastor strolled along behind, hands in his pockets. Watching the pair of them, easy grins and windblown hair, Alastor felt an uncomfortable stab in his chest. The same unpleasant feeling, incidentally, that had struck him that day beside the lake. He was annoyed, and not entirely sure why, and the not knowing bothered him immensely. Bothered him almost as much as the thought of Tiberius and Minerva and the prefects' bathroom. Alastor sighed and figured he should not have been surprised. Tiberius had always been popular with girls for some reason. He seemed to fit whatever requirements the female population of Hogwarts judged by anyway: tall, curly haired, rather good humored. Alastor, on the other hand, felt reasonably confident that he himself fit very few of the general preferences. He was far from short, but nowhere near Tiberius' lanky height, and his hair had probably grown a bit long over the summer. Not to mention his temper tended to be rather infamous. Alastor ran a hand through his hair, wondering perhaps if he should look into getting a haircut, and maybe associating with shorter people, because certainly that would be the best way to show off his own height, and...

"You even listening?"

Tiberius voice cut across the line of thought, and Alastor halted mid-stride. Tiberius and Minerva had both stopped in the middle of the path, watching him with amused expressions.

"Ah...what?" Alastor managed, ignoring another unpleasant ache in his chest. Minerva laughed now, crossing the distance between them and ruffling his hair.

"I was just asking what had you so distracted."

Alastor managed a nervous laugh, biting back a far too truthful "you" as his face rapidly reddened. Minerva fancied Tiberius, or Charlus, certainly not him, and Alastor certainly was not about to spoil a perfectly good friendship by admitting she had been driving him slowly mad for months.

"You know, just...daydreaming is all."

"You daydream?" Tiberius looked incredulous, and Alastor shot him a glare, willing him to shut up. Tiberius, however, either ignored or missed the hint entirely.

"What you daydream about, hm?"

"About how I'm going to hex you next time I get the chance," Alastor said, tugging his wand free. Tiberius raised his hands in mock surrender, backing away slowly.

"I'll be sure an sleep with one eye open."

Alastor's jaw clenched and he raised his wand, fully intending to hex the smirking Tiberius on the spot. Unfortunately, he realized too late that Tiberius was not in fact smirking at him. A sudden weight hit Alastor in the back, sending him staggering forward, nearly falling entirely. He swore and reached for whatever had attacked him, but not before two slim arms snaked around his neck.

"Oh yes Alastor, you're very intimidating," Minerva said, her voice in his ear. Suddenly he was very much aware of warmth and warm breath against his neck, butterflies in his stomach, and Alastor froze, still halfway bent over. Minerva seemed to still be trying to secure her hold, and some part of Alastor's mind very loudly informed him that he ought to help before she managed to fall. He straightened slowly, slipping his arms under her knees, shifting her easily into place.

"Much better," Minerva said cheerfully, tightening her hold around his neck. Alastor coughed sharply, not entirely sure whether the sudden grip or the mere fact that Minerva was currently perched on his back had breathing rather difficult. Either way, Minerva murmured a quick apology, loosening her hold instantly. Tiberius, meanwhile, had doubled over in his efforts to keep from laughing out loud. Alastor waited and made sure Tiberius was looking before mouthing a few rude words in the direction of his friend.

"'s fine. Anything I can do to help," Alastor said aloud, glancing over his shoulder. Minerva however had directed her attention to the rapidly darkening sky. The sunset was virtually hidden behind a bank of clouds that burned crimson and orange.

"When do you suppose it's going to rain?" Minerva asked.

"Hopefully not til we're back in the castle," Tiberius answered, finally composing himself enough to manage words. Alastor tilted his own head upward, just a raindrop splashed down onto his nose. He blinked twice in surprise, then laughed.

"Look's like it's just about to rain."

"No!" Tiberius feigned a look of panic.

"We'd best get back up to the castle," Alastor rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, expecting Minerva to jump down. She made no effort to move, however, and in fact thunked Alastor on the head for his troubles.

"You'd make me walk all the way back?"

"You always walk back!" Alastor said incredulously, ignoring the increasing amount of raindrops that splattered to earth every few seconds. Minerva gave some sort of annoyed sigh, and he guessed she must have been pouting.

"Maybe I don't want to walk back today."

"Not very ladylike," Tiberius cut in, shaking his head slowly, eyebrows raised. "If I may say so."

"Oh, rubbish. I don't care," Minerva answered. There was a pause, and Tiberius snickered again, and Alastor finally sighed and shrugged his shoulders again. Minerva might have grown a bit, but she was by no means anywhere near heavy, and certainly not for someone Alastor's build.

"You really want me to carry you back to the castle?" he asked slowly.

"Yes!"

"You want to get back up inside before it rains?"

"I would appreciate it."

Alastor grinned, though he knew she could not see him, then shifted his hold so that her knees rested against the inside of his elbows. Without daring to stop and think, because thinking might lead to more butterflies and that awful uncomfortable ache in his chest, Alastor took off running up the path. Thunder rumbled again, rattling air and earth and sky, and rain fell in huge drops that splashed against grass and stone and skin and glowed pink in the dying light. Minerva was laughing against him, and Alastor realized that he was laughing too, and Tiberius was chasing them up the path, shouting for them to wait.


	5. Blood and Chivalry

A/N - Continuing the story right from where we left off, on a rainy fall evening after Quidditch practice. And now, in the immortal words of the Princess Bride - "Prepare for the fight scene!"

* * *

Alastor had still been laughing as he rounded the top of the path, racing through the growing twilight and splattering rain, Minerva holding tight. A rather unexpected obstacle, however, caused him to come skidding to a stop, swearing under his breath. Four Slytherin boys lurked on the stairs that led back into the castle, all four watching the three Gryffindors with mild disdain. The abrupt halt knocked Minerva against his shoulder, air leaving her in a sharp gasp.

"Sorry," Alastor mumbled quickly.

"No, I'm alright," Minerva had turned now to look back at Tiberius, who had slipped on the wet ground and very nearly fallen.

"Merlin, mate," Tiberius sounded rather out of breath, "What's tha-"

The remainder of the question was drowned out in a crash of thunder, and rain fell harder now, cold and sharp and painful. Tiberius moved to stand beside Alastor, face grim and wand already drawn. Alastor shrugged again and this time Minerva took the hint, sliding to the ground easily and taking position on his right. Lightning flashed through the air, washing the world in brilliant white and illuminating the faces of the Slytherins.

Damien Rosier and Richard Nott, a pair of thin and wiry sixth years that could have been brothers, rested on the bottom step. Both wore identical glares that looked rather menacing in the twilight. The next seat on the stairs happened to be occupied by Reynard Lestrange. Lestrange might have been a fifth year, but he was still broad shoulder and big for his age in a way that made even Alastor look small in comparison. The final member of the group was also the youngest, a fourth year boy named Tom Riddle, who had seated himself on the highest step, well above his companions. Tom appeared polished and cold as always, idly watching the three Gryffindors with a blank expression. Alastor ignored the sudden gnawing worry in his stomach and drew his wand once more.

"Evening Tom."

At first no one moved, all seven standing or sitting in place, waiting and watching. The wind picked up, spraying cold rain across Alastor's face and slowly soaking into his Quidditch robes. Lightning arched through the sky again, charging the air.

"That's Mr. Riddle to you, Mudblood," Rosier spat, rising to his feet abruptly, and ugly scowl on his face. Alastor clenched his fists but made no other movement. He refused to allow the Slytherins to bait him into another fight.

"Think I'll stick with Tom, if you don't mind."

Rosier muttered something and stormed forward, the threat entirely lost in a howl of wind and rain. The Slytherin boy stopped a foot or so in front of Alastor, attempting to act intimidating but realizing a moment too late that Alastor in fact stood several inches taller. Rosier's mouth opened and closed as Alastor and Tiberius snickered.

"Got something ta say?" Tiberius asked, pointedly leaning down far enough to be at eye level with Rosier. Rather unappreciative of this, Rosier's face flooded red and he managed to find words at last.

"What's the matter, Moody? Don't like people to know your dad's a muggleborn?"

Alastor swallowed back a string of swearing and resisted a very powerful urge to put his fist through Rosier's face.

"Don't you dare talk about my da."

But Rosier had taken on a mad grin now, mouth opened to press the matter further, and Alastor was already beginning to see red at the edges of his vision. Fortunately, Minerva chose this moment to tug on his sleeve, tug him back to reality.

"We're not here to pick a fight," she said firmly, adopting her newly implemented prefect tone. Rosier seemed unaffected, until of course Tiberius straightened to his full height, towering over the much smaller Slytherin and glaring down at the older boy.

"Move. I'll not be asking again."

Rosier cast a glance back over his shoulder toward Tom Riddle, who merely shrugged and made no effort to move out of the way.

"Let them pass. And Damien, really, there's a lady present. Try and use polite language," Tom paused, eyes flickering over Minerva in a way that had Alastor sliding halfway in front of her protectively, "Even if she is a blood traitor."

Minerva gasped, and Tiberius shouted, but both sounds were muted in the wake of another peal of thunder. Alastor barely took a breath before his control on his temper snapped entirely and he raised his wand. With a bang and a crash, Tom Riddle went rolling away from the top of the stairs, clutching at his face and roaring for his little gang to act. Rosier and Nott responded eagerly, like hounds who had merely been waiting for a chance to be released. Alastor, still seething in place and utterly furious, would have been hexed rather quickly had Tiberius not reacted and deflected the spell into the ground. A shout and another bang, and Tiberius had taken on Rosier in a furious duel of snaps and spells and spoken words. The sudden movement snapped Alastor back to reality, back to the wind in his face and the rain running down the neck of his jumper, the sound of close and furious fighting. Nott, grinning wickedly, fought Minerva a few feet away, her own face set in grim determination as light from all the spells glowed against her glasses. Alastor's first instinct was to jump in and help, but Minerva seemed to guess his intention and shook her head, gesturing past his shoulder. Spinning around, wand drawn, Alastor discovered that Lestrange had finally lumbered into the fight.

"_Stupefy!_" The spell sounded odd and echoed in Lestrange's deep voice, and Alastor barely managed a Shield Charm in time to bounce the stunner harmlessly away. The rest of the world faded and ceased to exist, narrowing to the duel, the snap and hiss of magic, the smell of sweat and soot and damp earth, and the scowl on Lestrange's face.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Alastor grinned triumphantly as the disarming spell sent Lestrange's wand tumbling away in the direction of the stairs. For a moment, the big Slytherin looked rather confused, and Alastor realized later that he really should have taken that opportunity to finish the duel. Unfortunately, Alastor had failed to notice that as a result of the duel, he and Lestrange stood only a few feet apart. He did not in fact notice this change in location until Lestrange's fist swung upward and into his line of sight. Alastor never had time to duck. With a flash of light and an awful, staggering pain, the big Slytherin's fist connected with Alastor's face. The force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards as his head spun and lights continued to pop and explode across his vision. This must be what one felt like after being hit in the face with a hammer, Alastor reasoned. The world began to spin and slope dangerously, and Alastor very nearly lost his balance and did in fact manage to drop his wand. Alastor barely recovered in time to duck away from a second punch that would have caught him across the jaw and very likely would have knocked him out. Catching Lestrange by surprise, Alastor dove forward, all but blind in one eye and tackling the bigger boy with all the force he could manage. The Slytherin's head knocked against the ground with a dull thud, and all pretense of magic, of duels and propriety, were lost entirely. There were only fists and elbows and bloody noses and a rolling brawl through wet grass and puddles.

"Enough!"

A loud bang split the air, and Alastor tumbled away from Lestrange, thrown by some unseen force. He landed on his back a few feet away, staring blearily up at the deepening gray sky. Raindrops fell in slow motion, shining and clear against the dark sky, splashing down onto his face. Something had begun to drip into his eye, rain he supposed, but when Alastor wiped at his forehead his hand came away smeared red. He stared at his hand for a moment with his good eye, utterly confused at first. Finally, his mind registered that he must in fact be bleeding. Rather profusely, actually. Potentially, this could become a problem. Footsteps slapped on grass and stone, and then there were hands clutching at shoulder.

"Alastor!"

Minerva sounded half-panicked, but she had knelt down out of his line of sight. Alastor raised up slowly on his elbows, turning so that he could see her with the eye that still seemed to be responding properly. Her hair had come loose and her face was flushed and Merlin but she looked beautiful, soaked Quidditch robes and all. Alastor very nearly informed her of this before the part of his mind that had not taken a severe beating insisted that he keep his mouth shut. Instead he attempted a crooked grin, but Minerva still frowned and looked a bit frightened. This was both puzzling and upsetting, because Alastor could never recall an incident where he had seen Minerva scared. Admittedly, his memory did not presently feel up to the task for doing much recalling, but still Alastor hated to think he had frightened her. Alastor managed to open his mouth, determine to apologize only and avoid any inadvertent compliments, but was suddenly very aware of the hard press of a wand beneath his chin.

"I think that was entirely unnecessary, Mr. Moody," Tom said slowly, voice soft and cold. He jabbed the wand more firmly into Alastor's chin, forcing him to look up. A trail of blood leaked from a thin gash above Tom's left eye, his normally perfect hair rather disheveled. Tom's eyes though, eyes that usually remained cold and flat, had taken on a sharp, frightening gleam. Minerva's fingers tightened around Alastor's shoulder, and he had half a mind to tell her to move away. He knew perfectly well that she would refuse, however, and figured now was really not the time to have that particular argument. Tiberius disarmed and stunned Rosier with a flourish, moving with easy grace to stand at Alastor's left, wand still extended.

"Donnae ye dare, Riddle."

"And what would you do, hmm?" Tom asked, grinning wickedly now. "Either one of you makes the wrong move, even so much as looks like you've got a spell in mind, and I can assure you Alastor will not appreciate it very much at all."

The courtyard descended into stiff silence, broken by rolling, crackling thunder and the steady beat of rain against the ground. Lestrange and the other downed Slytherins groaned and muttered to themselves but did not appear to be standing again anytime soon. Tiberius had gone silent, curly hair plastered to his head, red-faced and furious, a white-knuckle grip around the wand that had fallen to his side. Alastor stayed frozen in place, not daring to move as his head pounded and his heart raced in his ears. Each new burst of lightning sent another dazzling bolt of pain through his skull, and Alastor figured any moment now he was going to be hexed to hell and back. There were no regrets, however, no regrets about hexing Tom or fighting Lestrange. Alastor might have been too afraid to admit his feelings for Minerva, but he would certainly not allow anyone to talk badly of her. Minerva herself still kneeled beside him, one hand holding a death grip on his jumper, the other pressed against his neck. Tom loomed above them both, his face dark and twisted, a frightening break in the boy's normally calm facade. Seconds passed, seven shapes poised and waiting as wind and rain howled down on them, lighting dancing in the sky overhead. Then the wand jabbed upward again as Tom's eyes narrowed, and Alastor made an effort to push Minerva out of the way, because if he was going to be hexed he certainly was not about to let her be hurt as well. But the spell never came.

"Lovely evening, isn't it?"

Alastor felt rather confident that he had never in his life been happier to hear the voice of Albus Dumbledore. Tom's face shifted abruptly at the sound, one moment dark and grinning wickedly and the next as utterly calm and detached as ever. The wand vanished from beneath Alastor's chin, tucked away into a pocket of Tom's robes in a rapid motion.

"Come on, mate," Tiberius muttered, lifting Alastor to his feet with an awkward pull and tug. The world slipped sideways, and Alastor would have fallen had Minerva not been on his opposite side, bracing him upright. Professor Dumbledore approached from the doorway, ignoring the rain and thunder entirely, wand raised and lit. Alastor had not until that moment realized precisely how dark the evening had grown. Tom spared one last steady glare for the three Gryffindors, then turned his attention to Dumbledore. Alastor had no doubt that the slippery fellow was about to try and escape any and all blame. Tom did indeed seem prepared to make an effort of some sort, mouth opened and hands in his pockets, but Dumbledore raised a hand and cut the boy off entirely.

"There will be no excuses this time, Tom. I'm fully aware of you involvement here."

"But Professor, the Gryffindors started all this," Tom said coolly, as though stating facts in class. "We were just sitting on the stairs."

"Really? Sitting outside in tha rain? Bollocks ta that," Tiberius challenged. Dumbledore's gaze shifted from Tom Riddle to the three Gryffindor Quidditch players, all of which were soaked to the skin and looked at this point rather worse for the wear.

"So, might I ask how all of this started then?" Dumbledore's tone was light and his face solemn, but Alastor would have sworn he saw a twinkle in his Head of House's eyes.

"Moody hexed me for no reason," Tom declared bluntly, pointing one accusing finger at Alastor. Honestly Alastor was too stunned to properly react. Although admittedly at this point, with the combination of Dumbledore's presence and the persistent ache in the back oh his skull, Alastor would not have been able to properly react anyway. Minerva, on the other hand, seemed quite furious, and was quick to leap to his defense.

"That's not true! He called Alastor a...he called him a mud-you-know-what!"

While Alastor normally did not object to Minerva's distaste for foul language, he really thought that in this case, using the proper word would actually have been a bit easier, if not more helpful. Dumbledore seemed to understand her meaning, at least, his face losing all trace of gentle inquiry as suddenly hard eyes locked on Tom Riddle. The light from his wand fell fully onto the Slytherin boy now, casting Tom's face into odd angled shadows.

"Is this true, Tom?"

"I've no idea what she's talking about," Tom replied, casually inspecting his fingernails. Alastor succeeded in reacting this time, his temper up and flaring once more. He jabbed a finger into Tom's face as Tiberius fought valiantly to hold him back.

"You called Minerva a....Apologize to her!"

Tom blinked twice but never responded, and Tiberius was forced to double his hold to prevent Alastor from charging forward. Slowly, Alastor managed to calm himself, taking deep gulping breaths of the wet autumn air as the adrenaline and pounding anger left him. Professor Dumbledore sighed and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he waved his wand in the direction of the three fallen Slytherins. All three boys vanished with a pop, leaving only slight impressions in grass and shadow.

"Fifteen points from everyone involved in the fight. And an extra twenty from you, Tom, because that kind of language is simply not excused at Hogwarts."

Tom seethed in place for a moment, looking like he might argue. Then he stormed away, black robes swirling in the wind as he vanished into the darkness of the doorway. Dumbledore watched Tom leave, shaking his head again. Then he seemed to remember the three Gryffindors standing huddled together in the rain.

"Mr. Kirk, Ms. McGonagall, I suggest you find your way back to the Tower before this rain decides to truly break. Mr. Moody, if you'll please come with me."

Alastor hesitated, largely because Minerva had suddenly seized hold of his shoulder once more, but also because his legs did not feel nearly up to the challenge of walking.

"We'll come with him," Minerva insisted, and Alastor would certainly not have argued with the look on her face. Dumbledore, however, seemed entirely immune to Minerva's stern gaze, although he did at least offer a small smile.

"No my dear, I think Madame Hewitt will be able to patch him up and return him to you shortly. And I'm sure Mr. Moody will be very glad to see you when he gets back to Gryffindor Tower," Dumbledore said gently.

"Mr. Moody would like to note that he is not in fact dead or unconscious, and is in fact standing right here," the thought left his mouth before Alastor really had proper time to recall he was speaking to a professor. Minerva's eyes widened, and Tiberius stifled a laugh as Alastor groaned and felt color rush to his face. Idly he wondered if perhaps the head injury gave him the ability to deny responsibility for that particular statement. Dumbledore, however, seemed nothing more than amused, motioning Alastor forward with his free hand.

"I apologize then, Mr. Moody. This way, please."

Minerva relinquished her hold this time, albeit with more than slight reluctance.

"I'll wait up for you," she promised. The same stern look was still on her face, and Alastor did not dare try and convince her that he honestly did not mind if she simply went to bed. She had at least stopped looking frightened, and now merely seemed deathly serious, and Alastor had really taken enough of a beating for one day. He simply shrugged and gave her a her a halfway smile, a difficult feat since his face did not seem to want to respond properly. Tiberius prodded him gently forward, adding a murmured farewell for good measure. Then Tiberius and Minerva were past, climbing the steps and passing through the open doorway, Minerva casting backward glances toward him every few seconds. Alastor stumbled toward Dumbledore and the castle, fighting the sickening dizziness that swarmed with each step. Thunder rolled, distant and dull now, although the rain had begun to fall more steadily in the darkness. Quietly Alastor followed Dumbledore up the stairs and crossed the threshold into the castle, the sudden brightness adding a fresh ache to his already pounding head.

"You know Alastor – do you mind if I call you Alastor?" Dumbledore asked suddenly. The door closed with a rolling boom that made Alastor's very teeth hurt. The air in the hall was cold too, made more uncomfortable by the fact that his hair and skin and Quidditch robes were all quite soaked. Alastor had barely gone three steps before he was shivering. Dumbledore tapped his wand to the side of his half-moon glasses, vanishing the drops of rain that hung on the lenses.

"No, 's fine," Alastor managed. Dumbledore smiled, careful to stay on the side with the one eye Alastor could still presently see with, apparently intent on having some sort of meaningful conversation. The fact that Alastor happened to be battling a distinctly unpleasant headache did not deter the professor in the slightest.

"Splendid. You know Alastor, that was a very brave thing you did. A bit foolish, but brave."

"Ah...what, exactly, was that sir?" Alastor frowned, following Dumbledore around a corner and up another flight of stairs. Perhaps the head injury really had caused some damage. The staircase moved, which did nothing for Alastor's already suffering sense of balance, and he rapidly found himself clutching at the banister in an attempt to stay upright. Dumbledore seemed not to notice. The portraits, however, took great notice, and in fact seemed to be laughing.

"Leaping, quite literally, to the defense of Ms. McGonagall," Dumbledore explained. Alastor had the uncomfortable suspicion that Professor Dumbledore had seen more of the fight than originally expected.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time, I suppose."

"Hm. There are plenty of wizards, unfortunately, who would not have acted at all, I'm afraid," Dumbledore waved to a portrait, then turned down another corridor, pausing to fix Alastor with an odd look. Color flooded to Alastor's face as he guessed at what precisely the professor was suggesting.

"I...well...she's my friend, and I...that's not a nice thing...not a nice way to talk about someone."

The words sounded odd and jumbled and Alastor winced as he spoke, wishing very much that the door to the Hospital Wing would just conveniently appear. That, or for the floor to swallow him entirely. Dumbledore merely smiled and nodded, far too knowingly for Alastor's taste.

"Perhaps you might look into putting your opinions and your temper to good use after Hogwarts."

"How do you mean?" Alastor frowned, glancing up at Dumbledore.

"This is your OWL year, correct?"

Alastor nodded, still frowning and not entirely understanding the change in subject.

"Then perhaps, when you make your appointment to speak with me about possible careers, you should inquire about the Auror Department," Dumbledore smiled again, only this time the smile was off somehow, different in a way Alastor could not precisely place. Before he had time to ask any questions, the door to the Hospital Wing finally appeared. Dumbledore ushered him inside without another word, save for a quick farewell, leaving Alastor alone in entrance to the long chamber.

Honestly Alastor had never much cared for the Hospital Wing, though he had indeed made frequent visits over the years thanks to various Quidditch injuries. The air was heavy with potions and spices and cleaning supplies, and the smell burned his nose. Alastor shifted in place, wet clothes still sticking to his skin, wondering if perhaps he could leave without anyone realizing. Minerva could probably patch his face up just fine, after all, and she had seemed very worried about him, and for some reason Alastor felt quite bad for worrying her at all. The ache in his head and the fact that he could only see out of one eye rather paled in comparison to the thought that he had upset Minerva. Alastor made up his mind and shuffled back towards the door, intent on apologizing to Minerva as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Madame Hewitt chose that moment to appear, took one look at his face, and ordered him to a seat on the nearest bed. Alastor sighed and begrudgingly obeyed, wincing as he nurse began to repair the cuts and bruises, fully intent on escaping at the nearest possible opportunity. Minerva had promised to stay awake until he returned, and Alastor did not intend to keep her waiting.


	6. Missing Pieces

A/N - Well, I do believe we've reached the end of this particular story. That's not to say there won't be plenty more fics with this pairing - I've got quite a few one shots in mind and another multi-chapter, don't worry. This just seemed like a good place to end this one. Many thanks to all my loyal reviewers, you guys are awesome! So here we go, last chapter - as always, read, review, but most importantly, enjoy!

* * *

Raindrops splattered on the windowpane, beating a heavy rhythm against the glass. The fire burned dully, long banked over for the night, orange glow and shadows playing on the common room wall. A quarter past midnight chimed on the old clock, though only Minerva remained awake to hear. All other Gryffindors had long since departed for bed, the last particularly studious bunch vanishing in a rustle of books and papers well before the clock struck twelve. Minerva lay curled against the arm of the sofa, wrapped in a tartan blanket and entirely unmoving, blinking away the sleep from her eyes.

Augusta had made three separate appearances over the course of the evening. The first had been shortly after Minerva returned to the common room after the fight with Tom Riddle. Minerva had been furious and badly frightened and placed herself on the sofa, arms crossed and refusing to move. Some traitor, Minerva guessed Tiberius, had sent for Augusta, who all but dragged Minerva upstairs to the dormitory. No questions were asked, and if Augusta noticed that Minerva seemed to be on the verge of tears she never commented. Instead she suggested a warm shower and clean clothes, ushering Minerva in the direction of the girls' bathroom. Of course, the mention of 'bathroom' forced a bitter reminder of the prefect's bathroom, and Alastor, and the butterflies, and Minerva bolted for the safety of the showers. She would not cry. She simply refused. Dumbledore had come along, and everything was alright. Alastor was alright. And yet Minerva could not help but remember Alastor's beaten face, the sight of him sprawled on the ground, still defiant and glowering up at Tom Riddle. Her throat felt awkward and tight, and an unpleasant ache had settled in her chest, and Merlin but Minerva wished her heart would stop pounding. Alastor was fine. Would be fine. He would return to the tower anytime now, all smiles and swagger, and all the world would go back to the way it was supposed to be. She would apologize the moment Alastor returned, too, because a sick, awful feeling nagged at the back of her mind and constantly informed Minerva that his injuries were her fault. Shoving her still-damp Quidditch robes into a laundry bin, something solid met her fingers, and Minerva hastily retrieved Alastor's wand from an inside pocket. She had rescued the wand from washing back down the hill, and could not precisely imagine Alastor would be too thrilled if she managed to lose his wand entirely.

Clad now in a clean nightdress and carrying her old tartan blanket, wand wrapped safely into the folds, Minerva descended the stairs and now took up position on one side of the sofa, leaning into the pillows and content to watch the world go on around her. Tiberius appeared to be entirely absent, as were most of the other fifth years. Charlus did stagger through the portrait, a broad grin on his face. Or at least, Minerva thought he must have staggered through the portrait – he was staggering, at least, but Charlus tended to appear places as if by magic. Scrimgeour and Lockhart had yet to return from detention, and without their ringleaders the little band of third years who usually provided a shocking amount of noise remained relatively quiet. A group of sixth or seventh years, the Head Girl among them, had scooted all the desks into a circle and begun some sort of transfiguration game in the center. Minerva watched the proceedings for awhile, eyes instantly on the portrait any and every time the door swung inward. Gryffindors came and went for an hour, then two, but Alastor never appeared. Minerva ignored the gnawing worry, the phantom images of blood and rain that played across her mind. All sorts of horrible scenarios occurred to Minerva as she waited, all sorts of reasons why Alastor had yet to return. Perhaps he had been hurt worse than anyone expected, or had run afoul of an angry Tom Riddle. Not to mention the distinct possibility that Alastor had stubbornly decided he could forgo a trip to the nurse entirely. Minerva hated not knowing, hated having to patiently wait to see what happened. Hated the thought that Alastor had only been hurt in the first place because of her.

As the rain fell harder on the roof of the tower, more and more Gryffindors poured into the common room, trailing puddles on the floor. Slowly, achingly slowly, time passed, the clock chiming for ten, then eleven, and with each passing hour the students vanished upstairs in pairs and bunches. Idly Minerva toyed with a loose string at the end of the blanket, some part of her mind suggesting she might ought to be studying. That happened to be a very small part, however, and was rather drowned out by concern for Alastor.

Augusta appeared once more sometime just before midnight, trying her best to be understanding and persuade Minerva to come back to the dormitory and go to bed. Minerva refused, at one point ignoring Augusta entirely and pretending not to hear even a slight suggestion that the watch be abandoned. Augusta had sighed, rolled her eyes, and looked fully prepared to argue further. In fact, Minerva settled deeper into the sofa and closed her fingers around Alastor's wand, just in case Augusta decided a more physical approach was necessary. The two girls stared at each other for a moment, each one daring the other to move first. Then Augusta sighed again and climbed back upstairs, muttering to herself and toying with the sleeves of her nightgown. Ten of fifteen minutes passed, and then Augusta made her third and final trip down the stairs. Minerva had braced herself, fully expecting an argument. Augusta walked behind the sofa, looking down at Minerva with an odd expression.

"You're determined to wait up then?"

"Until he gets back," Minerva answered without hesitation. Augusta bent down behind the sofa, vanishing from sight for a moment. Something rustled against the carpet, and Minerva leaned up to see what precisely Augusta was doing. The answer came in the form of a very large, very soft pillow that arched through the air and landed on Minerva's head. An extra blanket followed, and as Minerva struggled to free herself from the sudden onslaught of bedding, Augusta left without a word or backward glance. Reminding herself to thank Augusta later, Minerva shoved the pillow behind her head and settled into place, warm and comfortable and snug on the sofa. The fire's pop and crackle mingled with her own breath and heartbeats and battled against the sound of pounding rain and distant thunder. The night stretched on, and if Minerva had not been watching the clock she would have sworn that time had stopped altogether, leaving her trapped in some awful in between place for the rest of eternity.

Then the room faded to rain and darkness, flashes of lighting and thunder and furious fighting. Shadow played on the faces of the Slytherin boys, cruel and sneering. Tom Riddle, with his awful words and dark eyes and terrible face breaking through the mask. Tiberius and Alastor, dueling with identical, grim smiles on their faces, scarlet Quidditch robes swirling, framed in rain and twilight. And then only Alastor, sprawled on the ground, face bloodied and lying entirely too still, and Minerva felt her heart falter and miss a beat and panic overwhelmed her because Alastor simply had to be alright.

The clock chimed at half past midnight, startling Minerva and drawing her out of the dream with a gasp. She must have dozed off, Minerva realized, snatching her glasses from where they had fallen onto the floor. The images lingered, taunting, at the edge of her mind, and Minerva scrubbed at her eyes and willed the memory away. Footsteps sounded on the staircase, heralding the arrival of someone from the boy's dormitory. Her arm was already halfway up, wand outstretched, before Minerva remembered that she currently had Alastor's wand and not her own. Hastily she returned both arm and wand to the warm space beneath the blankets, settling back into place just as the footsteps reached the common room floor. Tiberius Kirk loomed in the narrow doorway, all arms and legs. His pajamas did not seem to fit quite properly, too short at the wrists and ankles and rather baggy every place else. At the rate he was growing, Minerva had a feeling that Tiberius would be having to duck through doorways by Christmas.

"What are you still doing awake?"

Tiberius shrugged, seeming pleasantly surprised to find Minerva still occupying the couch. He tumbled into a seat at the opposite end, long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Cunnae sleep. Figured tha you would still be awake as well."

"I told him I'd wait," Minerva said, a little more sharply than she had intended. Tiberius merely gave her an odd sideways smile.

"Tis why I thought I might find you down here," he answered matter of factly. Silence passed for a moment, then two, save for the rain on the rooftop.

"So what's keeping you up? Minerva asked finally, cutting off Tiberius, who had opened his mouth to speak. She found herself uncomfortable with the idea that Tiberius might try and talk about the fight, and she had no idea why, but for some reason the only person Minerva even remotely wanted to discuss the fight with had yet to return from the Hospital Wing.

"Oh, all sorts of things," Tiberius feigned a serious face, "OWLs, Quidditch. A certain pretty Hufflepuff girl. Bad dreams," he added a wink and a yawn for good measure. Minerva thought perhaps the last two had been intended as a joke, but then again Tiberius always tended to make jokes about things that were in fact quite serious. She had been just about to ask who precisely this particular Hufflepuff girl happened to be when Tiberius made an attempt to steal the tartan blanket. In the ensuing struggle, Minerva lost her grip on Alastor's wand, which clattered to the floor. The pair of them froze, each holding one end of the blanket, Tiberius' eyes passing from Minerva to the wand on the floor and back again. Minerva merely remained entirely still, feeling her face flush and praying Tiberius failed to notice anything out of the ordinary. No such luck seemed to be available to her tonight, however.

"Is tha...is tha Alastor's wand?" Tiberius looked slightly incredulous. Minerva ignored this as best as she possibly could, releasing her hold on the blanket and bending to retrieve the fallen wand.

"I...well. Yes,"

"You stole his wand?"

"No!" Minerva insisted, jerking the blanket away from Tiberius, who had given up his efforts entirely. "He dropped it in the fight, when Lestrange hit him. I picked it up and...and I forgot to give it back. But I was going to give it back to him tonight!"

"He probably hasn't even realized he's lost it," Tiberius pointed out.

"I'm sure he'll still be happy to have it back," Minerva said firmly, doing her best to end the conversation. Based on the smirk Tiberius currently wore, he seemed unlikely to drop the subject anytime soon.

"So you stayed up just to give him back his wand?"

"I...no, I mean, I wanted to, yes, to give him the wand and to talk...to him..." Minerva winced, faltering over words and watching as Tiberius' eyebrows shot upwards.

"Oh really? Talk to him about what?"

"About the fight."

"Telling him you think he ought ta be a prize fighter, hmm?" Tiberius grinned and shifted into a boxing pose from his seat on the sofa, pretending to punch at an opponent. The firelight cast his shadow onto the far wall, a dark shape taking swings at an old tapestry.

"To apologize to him," Minerva murmured, holding Alastor's wand in both hands and watching the shadow Tiberius on the far wall, not daring to look at the real one. The shadow boxing stopped abruptly, arms dropping away and melting into one large dark shape against the wall. Slowly, Minerva turned her attention to Tiberius, who sat watching her with an odd, almost sad expression. Half of his face glowed orange in the firelight, like he wore only half of a mask.

"Minerva, you cannae think tha any of tha mess was a fault of yours."

"I...know. I know. But I still. I need to talk to Alastor. I just...I just do," Minerva insisted, biting her lip as her throat chose that moment to tighten and her eyes prickled with tears. Tiberius slid to his feet, suddenly towering over the sofa. The firelight caught him in silhouette, but she could tell that he was smiling, or at least attempting to smile.

"Aye. Then you talk ta him."

Tiberius bent rapidly and gave her an awkward, sideways hug, then crossed the common room in three long steps and vanished up the stairs. Minerva sighed, scrubbing at her eyes again and resisting a bizarre urge to laugh. Tiberius never much cared for emotional situations, but he usually made an effort to convey that he genuinely cared. Of course hugging Tiberius was rather like hugging a scarecrow, and he tended to bolt from the room immediately after, and really one would expect that a boy with three older sisters would know better how to deal with emotional moments. But he tried, at least, and Minerva appreciated the effort.

The clock chimed one, and Minerva began to resign herself to the possibility that she might very well spend the night on the common room sofa. Voices in the hallway caught her attention, the sound of someone arguing with the Fat Lady. Minerva's heart sped up and she watched as the hinges creaked and portrait swung inward. The Fat Lady still seemed to be grumbling about students out wandering the corridors at odd hours of the night, but the boy who entered the common room entirely ignored the noise. His shoulders were slumped, hair hanging in his face, and he seemed to be paying no attention at all to anything but putting one foot in front of the other.

"Alastor," Minerva said softly, apparently too quietly for him to hear. He passed by the sofa, tripping up over some unseen obstacle, and Minerva reached up and grabbed his wrist. "Al."

The sudden contact startled him badly, and Alastor jumped and swore, then blushed when he realized who precisely had grabbed him.

"Merlin, Minerva, why aren't you in bed?"

"I told you that I'd wait up for you," Minerva reminded him gently, tugging him around the side of the sofa and into the firelight. He moved willingly, watching her with a faintly bemused expression. The blood and cuts and bruises that had covered his face hours before had vanished entirely, save for a few streaks of soft pink here and there and the spectacular purple smears around his right eye. Minerva resisted a sudden urge to trace the lines gently with her fingers.

"Why didn't she fix this?"

"Oh," Alastor grinned a bit, "Well, she fixed my nose. And everything else, really. I told her she might as well leave the black eye. Else I'll have nothing to show for it."

"You want everyone to know you got hit?" Minerva asked, wondering if perhaps some sort of severe head trauma had in fact been suffered in the course of the fight or if boys really did think like this on a regular basis. Alastor frowned and seemed a bit put off by her question.

"No. I mean. I don't mind them knowing I was in a fight though. A fight I won, mind you. Think of it as a battle scar."

"Alright, fine then. A battle scar it is. Would you care to have this back as well?" Minerva revealed his wand, which had been safely hidden in the blankets since the incident with Tiberius. Alastor's eyes widened, hands probing at the pockets of his Quidditch robes.

"Merlin, I'd forgotten I'd dropped it. Thank you."

She handed him the wand, fingertips brushing against his, and for a moment their eyes met and some sudden spark arched between them. Then the moment passed and Alastor was hastily stowing his wand in a side pocket, tugging uncomfortably at his half-dry robes.

"So, you stayed up just to return my wand?"

"Sort of. I...well I wanted to um...I wanted to apologize," Minerva mumbled, the words struggling to come. Alastor seemed rather surprised, mouth opening and closing.

"Apologize...to me? I...why? I was going to apologize to you."

Minerva frowned confusedly at this particular revelation.

"For what?"

"Ah, you...you go first," Alastor smiled softly and gave a halfway bow. "Ladies first, after all."

Minerva took a deep breath, ignored the dangerous threat of impending tears, and blurted the words in a rush before she could change her mind.

"I'm really sorry that you got hurt because of me, because I don't want you to be hurt, and it was all my fault, and I'm so so sorry."

Her hands twisted in the folds of the tartan blanket, vision blurring, and she did not dare to look and see Alastor's reaction. Whatever his reaction though, his hand suddenly closed overtop of hers, warm and rough. Minerva glanced up and saw that he had leaned down, smiling softly again. Easily he pulled her to her feet, still holding both of her hands in one of his and knocking against his head with his free hand.

"Come on now. Takes more than a few knocks to the head to stop me. Besides, I wouldn't...I won't let them talk about you like that. I won't."

The last was said with such conviction that the words themselves brought back the butterflies, and Minerva became suddenly aware of precisely how close they were standing, and his hand still wrapped around hers, and the fiercely protective look in Alastor's eyes. Unfortunately, a lingering guilt remained, and Minerva felt a stray tear or three race down her cheek.

"I still feel awful," she admitted, "They called you a...well, you know."

"Aye," Alastor murmured. "Though I'd like to point, I sort of am."

"Don't say that!" Minerva said sharply, fixing Alastor with a stern look. "Please, don't start thinking that way."

"Does it matter?"

"Does what matter?"

"If I am a bit of a Mudblood. Does it matter to you?" Alastor asked. Minerva winced at his use of the word, but answered without hesitation.

"Not at all."

Alastor's face brightened considerably, as though the question had been some sort of test to reassure himself. Minerva was tempted to smack him for doubting her, but now really did not seem like the proper time.

"Good. Then it certainly doesn't matter to me," Alastor declared. "It's you I won't stand for them to call names."

Her heart bounced and skipped and Minerva's breath caught in her throat, and she really wished she could manage to get rid of the last of the tears.

"Weren't you going to apologize for something?"

"Oh. Aye," Alastor glanced to the floor, face coloring in the orange half-light. They stood for a moment, her hands in his, cast into silhouette and shadow by the dying flames. "I'm sorry...I felt really awful about...that I'd scared you. I didn't mean to, I certainly didn't."

Instantly the images from the dream, from the fight, flashed before her eyes, Tom Riddle's eyes and Alastor's bloody face, and the tears came unbidden this time. The fact was that she had been scared, scared very badly.

"N-no, I'm sorry, don't cry," Alastor pleaded hurriedly, looking baffled and upset and entirely unsure of what to do. "I really...oh. I didn't want you to cry."

Minerva locked eyes with Alastor, and for a moment she had a bizarre worry that he himself was about to cry as well. Then the moment passed and Alastor made an attempt at the Tiberius method of dealing with awkward conversations. Of course, the moment Alastor's arms closed around her, Minerva wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, crying into his shoulder. Alastor froze, entirely stunned by this sudden turn of events. Then he was holding onto her, still apologizing and murmuring under his breath, and suddenly Minerva felt warm and content and altogether safe, breathing in the smell of wet wool and sweat as butterflies raced through her stomach. Alastor was still talking, his chest rumbling against her and heartbeat positively racing. With a deep breath, Minerva banished the last of the tears and glanced upwards towards Alastor's face. He had stopped talking now, watching her with an odd expression that could best be described as a mixture of surprise and awe. His hair was still hanging a bit across his face, and the shadows almost hid his black eye. Minerva's heart pounded slow and heavy, and she reacted on impulse, raising up on her tiptoes and pressing her lips against his. The kiss lasted only a moment, a few seconds at most, but there was a spark there, a passing magic that Minerva instantly missed the moment their lips parted.

"Well," Alastor took a deep breath, the corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile, "If you're going to do that every time I get punched in the face..."

Minerva rolled her eyes and thunked him in the chest with the flat of her palm. He grinned and tugged at a stray curl of her hair, watching her with the same slightly awed expression. Then she shifted her hold, fingers running through the back of his hair as she pulled his face down to meet hers. Neither one of them hesitated for the second kiss, and time passed in a flurry of warm breaths and heartbeats, touch and taste. Magic was the only word that Minerva's mind managed to produce. The whole effect, the kiss, Alastor, together they formed some sort of magic, something that just felt altogether right. Raindrops pounded on the windowpane, and thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, but sound and time passed unheeded. Alastor's back thudded against the wall and he rumbled a laugh against her lips as they paused for breath, foreheads pressed together and grinning shyly at each other. They were safe, they were together, and then they were kissing again, and all the world felt entirely perfect, as though two missing pieces had finally found their place.


End file.
